


Love Fell on Me

by kentucka



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2216058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentucka/pseuds/kentucka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their victory drinks and only mildly inebriated, Aramis helps Porthos undress, and changes the bandages on the laceration. As he usually does after one of them got injured. But this time, the accompanying mutual teasing turns awkward.</p>
<p>(Because there can never be enough codas to 1x03 - Commodities)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Fell on Me

**Author's Note:**

> _I didn't fall in love_  
>  _It was love that fell on me_  
>      — “Imbecile Anthem” by ASP

Athos clapped on Porthos’ shoulder amicably, causing the poor man to wince.

“Mind my wound,” Porthos complained, and Athos snatched his hand back, his placating gesture equal measures amused and truly chastised.

“Mind my needlework!” Aramis put in immediately; he wouldn’t like to have to sew the same wound thrice as it could only result in a nastier scar. The others may tease him about his prowess with a needle, but he knew they appreciated it in the wake of a battle; it had saved their lives as often as Aramis’ musket or sword. And so he took pride in his work, and strove not just for efficiency but finesse.

He guided Porthos past their friends, pointing them towards the garrison where the necessary implements to wash and redress the wound were at his disposal. No amount of drink and laughter with his friends would make him forget his duty. His arm habitually went around Porthos’ shoulders, hand settling on the wound just barely, but again Porthos grimaced. “My apologies,” Aramis said, about as sincerely as Athos had been, and he heard the others chuckle.

“At this rate, you’ll be able to embroider my shoulder by the end of the week,” Porthos grumbled.

“Do not worry, I will stitch a beautiful fleur-de-lis,” Aramis replied with as straight a face as he could manage.

*

A few streets before the garrison they parted ways with d’Artagnan, who headed back to the Bonacieux’, and Athos climbed the steps to the building in which he lodged.

After passing the gate Aramis sent Porthos ahead to his assigned room as well, with strict warning not to undress any further than his boots while alone. The aggravated shoulder would not take kindly to more movement, even just to shrug off a coat weighed down by armor.

In the meantime, he fetched fresh water, ointment, and bandages, but forewent any wine hoping that Porthos had had enough celebratory drinks to dull the sting. Thus laden, he joined Porthos in his room just in time to see him contort, wrestling his good arm out of the doublet, holding onto the cuff with his injured right without stretching the wound.

Aramis sighed and set his supplies on the small table, but held his tongue when Porthos glared in warning, wary of reproach. Any anger that might have risen inside Aramis at seeing his friend causing himself further pain quickly drowned in understanding. Of course the big man was unwilling to be defeated by a laceration already stitched up—in his mind this surely counted as good as healed—and now, belatedly, the axe had hit his pride metaphorically as severely as it had hit his shoulder physically. Aramis knew himself well enough that he would have attempted the same had their places been reversed.

And so Aramis merely stepped up behind Porthos. He rested his hands on wide upper arms stubbornly encased in leather, marveling at how his fingers managed to span barely half around. He shook that thought off, and squeezed just enough to provide resistance against the continued movement. “Patience, brother. Let me help.” Only when Porthos stilled did he let go to open the buckles of the pauldron. The leather of the doublet would have to be cleaned and mended; armor would only get in the cobbler’s way.

“I’m not a patient man,” Porthos replied with one-sided shrug, less an apology than a reminder.

Aramis snorted. “I am well aware. Unless you are spying.”

He put the pauldron aside, reminding himself to polish it along with his own. While Porthos would surely deny it, he was in no condition to tend to his equipment properly.

After years of combat side-by-side this was hardly the first injury which impeded the use of an arm; what followed felt like the steps in a well-practiced dance: Aramis held the left cuff, which allowed Porthos to pull his good arm out. Then Aramis lifted the coat, armorless but heavy still with gleaming studs and patches reminiscent of a snake’s scales, off both shoulders. Finally, he lowered it along Porthos’ right side until, at last, the injured arm also slipped free.

Doublet in hand, Aramis continued, “You are honorable and generous, my friend. If you counted patience among your virtues as well, we would have a true saint in our midst.” Aramis frowned because to his own ears, the joke had fallen flat and all that was left was overly fond flattery. Yet he refused to take the words back; Porthos deserved compliments to lighten his mood, no matter how foolish they made Aramis feel.

Porthos chuckled, turning his head sideways so Aramis could see the raised eyebrow. “A saint? You may be the one infamous for his dalliances with noble madames, but I’m not innocent, either.” His eyes twinkled, and the accompanying grin was purely suggestive.

“Infamous, he says! I’ll have you know my reputation is based on merit,” Aramis’ smirk belied the outrage in his voice. A challenge had been issued, and in this he was well-versed. He would enjoy besting Porthos, but even more, he would relish playing. So he leaned in, speaking right against the ear, knowing his beard and breath would tickle the sensitive shell—one of his favorite techniques when it came to courting said ‘noble madames’. “But oh, I absolutely believe that you have quite the filthy mind,” he whispered, rougher and lower than he ever would with a lady, “one to rival mine when it comes to inventiveness.”

As Aramis turned away, he let his curly hair brush Porthos’ nape; another calculated move. A barely perceptible shiver ran through Porthos, and Aramis silently counted this round as a win.

“Besides,” he laughed while hanging the coat next to the door, “if any one of us is likely to be canonized, it would be Athos and his martyrdom.”

Upon return, Aramis reached for the billowing shirt at Porthos’ waist, to pull it out of his breeches. But as soon as his fingers bumped into the body underneath the linen, Porthos flinched violently.

Shocked, Aramis stepped back. It was only then that he recognized his friend standing too straight and tense; no trace of the wine-addled slouch from before. “Porthos? Have I said something wrong?” he worried. “I am sorry, I shouldn’t have made light of Athos’ troubles—”

Porthos shook his head. “You said nothing _wrong_.”

There was a strange inflection on the last word, and Aramis latched onto it. “But it is something I said,” he insisted, “or you would not jump as if my touch were a _whip_!” It was bad enough when Athos did, woken from a nightmare, and then at least Aramis was certain Athos but remembered the phantom touch of somebody else. Porthos however was wide awake and did not startle easily, which left something Aramis had unwittingly done as the reason that his best friend would shrink from him. The thought pierced his heart.

“Nevermind,” Porthos muttered, refusing to turn around and instead tugging his shirt loose by himself. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Unsettled by the gruff answer, Aramis helplessly waited until Porthos had picked open all knots at the collar and around the wrists. Ridding Porthos of his shirt was just as silent an affair as the coat had been, but where before it had felt unhurried and comfortable, Aramis now was choking on swallowed demands and pleas. Diligently, he avoided skin contact, even as he peeled the shirt off the sticky bandages where blood had saturated them.

The shirt, too, would need to go to a seamstress, but right now Aramis didn’t care. There was more broken here than a couple pieces of clothing, and he had no idea how to mend it. His brothers meant the world to him, possibly even more than his duty to the king—evidenced by the treason they all had committed mere hours ago. Athos had provided an elegant solution, certainly, but Aramis also knew that if it came down to it, he would leave all reason and concerns for personal safety behind to save one of his brothers. The viciousness he knew himself capable of, it would frighten him if he didn’t know in his bones that each of them would do the same for him.

“I’m going to clean the cut now.” He hesitated, hating how he was forced to touch his friend when clearly, he didn’t appreciate it, no matter how tactile they usually were with each other. “I will be quick.”

Porthos nodded once, and so Aramis gently set his left hand next to the wound. This time, if anything, Porthos seemed to relax. Heartened, but still mindful not to tear the scabbing, Aramis lifted the layers of dressing.

“The stitches have survived our skirmish in the tavern, and although it has bled again, it has clotted well.” He soaked a clean rag in the water he’d brought, and dabbed at the smeared blood. “The skin is reddened yet not hot to the touch,” he reported, “so it likely isn’t infected. Still, to make sure…” He trailed off, and picked up the ointment. “This might sting,” he warned, before spreading it generously over the broken skin.

Porthos huffed and rubbed his left hand over his face, but Aramis could tell it was not the burn of the salve bothering him.

When Aramis set the cup aside, Porthos turned around immediately, launching into a speech that he must have been readying himself for. “I am sorry, brother. In the past two days, you have yet again saved my life, my sanity possibly—hell, you committed treason for my sake.”

“For my sense of justice as much as yours,” Aramis interjected.

Porthos ignored him. “You do not deserve my foul mood in return for your care. I am not cross with you, Aramis. If anything, I am angry at myself, and ever more grateful to you for not leaving me to my own devices when I treat you so shoddily.”

Aramis’ relief was palpable, a rush of air in his lungs. Enough so that he happily overlooked the distinct lack of an explanation where this darkness had come from when only seconds before, they had been joking. He cupped Porthos’ jaw in both hands, delighting in the scrape of the dark beard against his palms. “My dear friend, I love you, and you will not rid yourself of me so easily. Ungratefulness is not a crime severe enough for me forsake you. Come to think of it, they would have yet to make one up.”

Porthos’ brown eyes were hard at first, determined in his self-censure, but Aramis watched them melt as the words sunk in, and then narrow again as if he’d accepted a dare. _Beware_ , Aramis thought to himself with a smile, and hoped to distract them with the task at hand.

“Come now, let me redress your grave injury, which, as I will report to Captain Tréville, needs rest for a fortnight or more, lest the stitches tear again. No missions and no training.” Porthos made a noise of protest, but Aramis quickly spoke over him. “Call it my vengeance, and be glad that our night out means I cannot believably claim bedrest necessary for most of this time, too.”

It might have been more lingering guilt on Porthos part than a triumph of Aramis’ arguments, but Porthos acquiesced with only minimal grumbling about getting a second opinion from the regiment’s surgeon first thing in the morning.

Aramis picked up the strips of cloth, folding a shorter one over the cut to act as a compression, then wrapping the longer ones around Porthos’ chest and over his shoulder to hold it in place. If he happened to smooth over every scar on Porthos’ torso in the process, well, nobody needed to know that it was by design, a reassurance to himself that all was well between them. Meanwhile he berated Porthos good-naturedly for at least half of them—those which he had witnessed and sewn up afterwards—, calling him boisterous and rash and audacious and any other adjective Aramis could think of which conveyed with sufficient strength that Porthos took unnecessary risks in battle.

“You remind me of a lioness,” Porthos said, holding the last bandage to his chest while Aramis secured its end at his back.

“If you were aiming to insult my nurturing side, you should have gone with the classic mother hen,” Aramis teased. “Lionesses are proud and fearsome creatures.”

“Protective and strong,” Porthos agreed. “You stood up to Athos.”

Aramis froze. He had believed that Porthos hadn’t heard their exchange, the pain keeping him occupied, but really it shouldn’t be a wonder that few things slipped past a Musketeer’s notice even while bleeding profusely. He tied the last of the bandages, patted Porthos’ waist, and pressed his lips against the back of Porthos’ neck, beneath short soft hair. “There, all better,” he said in lieu of an answer - because really, what could he say. He’d made sure that Athos wouldn’t allow whatever ghosts haunted him to hurt their friend, nothing more.

Only Porthos stiffened again - at the tickle of Aramis’ moustache? At the evasive response, or something else entirely? Aramis didn’t know. But this time, ere Aramis could beat another hasty retreat, Porthos grabbed the hands still at his waist to hold Aramis in place. Confused, Aramis stayed where he was, although now at arm’s length. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Porthos drew in a breath and held it for several seconds; Aramis realized he’d unconsciously done the same, filled with prickly anticipation. When Porthos continued, it was halting and quiet. “It—it felt good?”

It was a request for more if Aramis had ever heard one, without even using the words. Had this been a conquest, Aramis reflected, someone he was flirting with, he would now have been sure of their interest; he would have snickered and looked for the closest chaise. But this was _Porthos_ , his brother-in-arms, emotionally wrought out after two infinitely long days, instinctively seeking physical comfort to go with the satisfaction of Bonnaire delivered to the Spaniards, the drink and companionship. This was his best friend whose face he couldn’t see, couldn’t read to confirm. He could tell, however, that Porthos was as tense as a bowstring—maybe dreading that Aramis would make fun of him? Or perhaps of asking too much, of overstepping an invisible boundary to their friendship? If only he knew how far Aramis would let him go.

Whatever the reason, Aramis knew he would give Porthos anything he asked for. There was another piece of skin peeking out between the winding bandages, at the juncture of shoulder and neck, so he pressed his lips against it, anxiously waiting for a reaction. What he received was a sigh, and Porthos pulled Aramis’ left hand forward until it rested over Porthos’ heart.

It beat strong, its thump easily felt through the layer of linen. If it ran faster than usual, Aramis had no reference. Still following his instincts, Aramis shifted a little, mouthing at the inexplicably soft skin behind Porthos’ ear.

Porthos’ head tilted immediately, and he hummed. “I guess there’s a kernel of truth in the ol’ adage of ‘kissing it better’.”

As he turned, Aramis stood transfixed. Their position was now a proper embrace, and all Aramis’ experience at wooing, all his insights into his friend’s mind and mannerism screamed at him that this was going exactly where he thought, except—except he couldn’t believe it. Why should everything be suddenly different? Why now? Aramis refused to analyze it, lest he question his state of mind and back away from the most important relationship in his life. Truly, what did it matter when Porthos had resolved whatever qualms he’d had before: Back was his usual cockiness, the lopsided smile and crinkling around the eyes.

Before his contemplative silence could stretch awkwardly, Aramis asked, amused, “Are you praising the power of love?”

“The power of distraction, more likely.” Porthos grinned with another positively indecent leer same as which had started this whole nerve-wrecking back-and-forth. “As I remember, you are excellent at providing distraction when you wish it.” Despite the eyebrow-waggling, Porthos’ gaze was earnest, unwavering, daring him to read into his words.

The thought stunned Aramis stupid; a cannon fired right next to his face, blinding and deafening him. He swallowed, doubt thick as sawdust in his throat. A _distraction_?

His face must have given something away, because Porthos’ eyes widened in realization. One large hand rose to tangle in Aramis’ hair. But he recovered quickly, as always in battles of arms or wits. He found his voice again, its customary snide barely kept at bay as any time he felt hurt. “I am capable of so much more.”

Maybe Porthos was used to parsing Aramis’ ambiguous words in these sour moods, or maybe it had indeed been the right thing to say, because a smile broke out over Porthos’ face the likes of which Aramis was hard-pressed to remember ever having seen before, even bestowed upon a lady Porthos had fancied. Aramis’ heart leaped in his chest. He’d received a multitude of smiles from Porthos over the years, ranging from evil grins at Aramis’ expense when he’d made a fool of himself, to pride whenever he showed off his skills with a musket. But this was new: unconditional, sweet adoration.

“I—” Porthos opened his mouth to say something, half laughing, but Aramis had seen enough. No more apologies, cautions, or confirmations. He lunged forward, head angled just enough to connect soft lips rather than breakable noses.

For a moment, Aramis’ only clear thought was how he could feel just a little wetness, having caught Porthos mid-sentence. His entire weight leaned against him, trusting Porthos to keep their balance.

And in the next, Porthos inhaled deeply, pushing back with his body while at the same time clutching Aramis closer. It felt unreal, like a dream, but Porthos’ strength kept it from floating away.

Aramis’ fingers dug into the broad, dark back, feeling it striped with linen; he was just aware enough not to grab at the wound proper—Good lord, he had almost lost Porthos yesterday!

He still recalled it clearly: the mercenaries he struck down, grass under his feet. He had lost sight of the others, his back to them while they fought. He could still hear their swords, and then the _yell_ —the sight of Porthos on the ground, a man with a bloodied axe standing above him— his worst nightmare come to life—seconds feeling like ages until he reached his friend, until he had fought back the axe-wielder, until he could feel Porthos’ pulse, until his own heart would resume its beat—

After the surgery, he hadn’t let himself give in to the panic which had threatened to grip him in the quiet of the night. He’d forced himself into a calm effectiveness, for d’Artagnan as much as Porthos, because Athos obviously had not been up to it.

The same desperation surged up now, a sick, twisting heat in his gut, tearing a broken sound from his throat. Immediately Porthos pulled back, but, embarrassed that his mind would trick him now that all was right again, Aramis hid his face against his friend’s chest. Instead he reveled in the warm and tight embrace, in this proof that Porthos was still with him.

_He must have questions_ , Aramis thought, but if Porthos did he never voiced them. Instead they stood there a minute longer, waiting for Aramis to breathe levelly again. Idly he pressed a kiss to the collarbone conveniently already close enough that all it took was to pucker his lips.

Porthos chose this as his cue to pointedly -one-handedly- shove Aramis’ long coat from one shoulder. And then kept unhelpfully poking at knots and buttons when Aramis tried to comply.

“You’re just making it worse,” Aramis laughed; Porthos’ interference had him stuck in his shirt. Once freed, he turned to throw it over the chair, when Porthos suddenly grabbed at his shoulders.

“Aramis!” he scolded. “Are you alright? Were you ever going to tell anyone?”

“What?” Aramis twisted to look at himself, but the unnatural movement reminded him painfully, more effectively than seeing the telltale blue-purple skin. He winced. “Ah, one of Meunier’s mercenaries managed to hit me with a chain.”

Porthos traced a finger lightly along what Aramis assumed to be the edge of the bruise, from his waist over his spine. “Does it not hurt?”

“No more than the rest of me,” Aramis joked flatly.

He felt both of Porthos’ palms smooth across his shoulder blades now, up over his neck and into the hair, thumbs digging into the muscle there. With a moan, Aramis let his head fall forward.

“Mind your stitches,” he admonished, and then laughed again, self-deprecatingly, as the next thought struck. “Pathetic. Five minutes ago I had planned to press you onto the mattress and show you how exactly I have earned my reputation. Now I think we are both invalids incapable of following through with that plan.”

He felt Porthos’ answering laugh rumble against his back, when he pressed in and all but enveloped Aramis from behind. Thick but nimble fingers began working at the lacing of his breeches, not-quite-there pressure against his cock both tease and promise. Porthos’ breath were puffs of air against the nape of Aramis’ neck, which Aramis instantly recognized as turnabout of their original challenge. _Quick learner, this friend of mine_ , he thought with a smile.

“Tonight maybe we can’t,” Porthos agreed. “But you’re always taking such good care of me, now let me take care of you.”

Aramis groaned at the suggestion, the sensual images in his mind driving home again the fact that this was indeed real. For the longest time he had accepted the yearning as a part of the most rewarding friendship he had had in his life. To have it sated—no, that would probably never be true; he would never get enough of Porthos’ undivided attention. But Aramis felt freed from a cage he’d willingly entered and resigned himself to; to have those restrictions fall away was overwhelming. He still was not sure he deserved it, recalling the many hearts he had broken.

Successfully divested of all but their smallclothes, Porthos guided Aramis onto the bed and climbed on top, carefully supporting himself with his left alone.

“You are the kindest man I know. I will forever strive to be worthy of you,” Aramis vowed, and he might have added more if Porthos hadn’t kissed him breathless. It was for the best, really, because Aramis had no idea what declaration would have come out of his mouth next.

“No need. I already know,” Porthos replied, interrupting himself with more kisses, “exactly what you’re capable of.”


End file.
